


Freudian Slip

by ProfaneTernion (orionCipher)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Apple Shenanigans, But I really wouldn't count on it, I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Write, M/M, So don't expect long or frequent updates, This is a back burner project btw, Unless there's some freak act of fate/inspiration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionCipher/pseuds/ProfaneTernion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A partial fill for a forgotten prompt in which Altaïr outnumbers Malik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My hope for reposting this here is that it'll prompt me to actually work on it.  
> Yes, well...

I

Too much contact with the apple was dangerous - he knew, as Malik had told him time and time again that prolonged contact begged for disaster. But Altaïr was a prideful man and was never one to listen, _especially_ not to Malik.

When his world stopped moving, his mind stopped swimming, and his vision rose from black, Altaïr would only wish he had listened to his friend, if he could but wish.

 

II

The satchel Malik had been toting in crashed to the floor, inks spilling from their shattered vessels and draining swiftly into still fresh bread and sweet dried dates. Where once surely only one of the Assassins in his bureau must have stood now towered three, each a reflection of the other with the Apple between them. Malik wished he could be back in the markt, still finding dinner and supplies, the worst of his worries being the price of his quills or the quality of the oil.

No.

This wasn't happening.

That fucking novice hadn't done this.  
Malik was just dreaming, suffering full blown somnambulism if the residual heat in his skin was anything to go by. After all, one didn't just triplicate themselves in a half hour, and one most assuredly did not leer at their once-best-friend like that.

Three novices.

What the _fuck_ was Malik supposed to do with three Altaïrs?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I _try_ to break a writer's block...

III

It was easier to lose himself in the swirling patterns the varicolored inks were making around the wasted glass, engulfing the smaller pieces and swallowing the parchment whole, snaking across its planes. After all, if Malik lost himself in the vibrant chaos staining his floor, he wouldn't have to face this mess just yet.  
The blue had now pooled around a cluster of dates, mingling to purple where the red had dared too close.  
Clean up would eat his afternoon. 

One of the novices was moving his arm about, just inside his range of vision. 

Malik would have to rebuy everything, too.  
What a waste of coin.  
A thick sigh spread past his lips, deafening in its finality; Altaïr would be paying for this with more than coin and penitence. 

"Malik." 

His head flung up at his name.  
At the warm hand clasping his arm. 

Oh.  
Right.  
 _Altaïrs_.

Malik was tired.  
Malik was angry.  
Malik was hungry and annoyed and about ready to snap after being accosted by this idiot novice, but his venomous glare met only cool apathy, and the flames of his hate chocked out. 

Altaïr was a lot things. Stoic was not one of them.


End file.
